


A Pair of Finches in a Brass Cage

by fiendlikequeen



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pining, Purple Prose, Tenderness, Unrequited Love, and it's almost a threeway, and puns, because that's how i roll, bird metaphors, crimes against the english language include:, major character death? never met her, my boys are tender and happy and in love, praise-heavy fuckin', punctuation-related sins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendlikequeen/pseuds/fiendlikequeen
Summary: James Clark Ross brought Francis Crozier back from the Arctic, but he finds Francis a changed man - perhaps the most striking change being Francis's constant companion, James Fitzjames. James discovers, only partly by accident, the true nature of the relationship between Francis and Fitzjames.
Relationships: (unrequited), Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Lady Ann Ross/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 54
Kudos: 168





	A Pair of Finches in a Brass Cage

**Author's Note:**

> JCR POV, actually plot-driven. I know, I'm shocked. This fic started as a lighthearted excuse for puns, then became PWP voyeurism, then went full angst, and is now this. Did I rip out enormous chunks of writing that were good but that I couldn't mesh with the rest? Yes. Am I happy with that? FUCK NO
> 
> Anyway, crimes against the English language ahead! Today the menu consists of purple prose, nauseating sappiness, shameless abuse of punctuation, a gratuitous bird metaphor, and Jack Aubrey-style puns on James’s and Francis’s names. End me.

According to Sir James Clark Ross, the story begins with Ann’s finches. In reality, this is rather near the end of a tale begun half the world away and several years previously. Its first chapter is penned not in a brass birdcage sitting in a parlour at Eliot Place, but scrawled amongst shrieking ice, groaning timber, and dying men.

But as far as James can understand it, the narrative begins, rather humbly, with a pair of finches.

“James,” says Ann on a rather ordinary late autumn morning. Her tone is as it is when she is about to be rather clever and perhaps scathing, but does not wished to be accused of rudeness. “Don’t these two rather remind you of another two?”

James rouses himself from his paper to find Ann peering into a birdcage that houses a gift from Lady Jane Franklin – a pair of finches.

James cannot help but smile at her. “I’ve no idea what you mean, dearest.”

“Come and have a look, then.”

He sets aside the paper and joins her by the cage. At her direction, he obliges her with a critical gaze. “I,” he pronounces after a moment, with a playful gravity, “still have no idea what you mean.”

She laughs. “See there,” she says, pointing into the cage. “There are two of them. This one, here – the male. Rather lovely, isn’t he? He’s the one who sings so beautifully.”

“Rather.” Drily said. The bird is pretty, of course, but James is no ornithologist.

“His mate is that one,” she goes on, indicating the other finch. “By comparison, small and rather drab. She says little, and is very shy. See, now – she hides behind her mate.”

James confirms his wife’s assertion by examining the female finch, who has hopped behind the male and is regarding him with some suspicion.

“Now, who do we know who’s like that?”

James cocks a brow as he turns from the cage to Ann, whose smile is bordering on the mischievous.

“One of many words, the other of none. Fitzjames,” she says, pointing to the male, “and Francis,” she adds, gesturing to the female.

James laughs with Ann, and then pulls her into his arms to kiss her. When she has wriggled out of his grasp, he turns his attention back to the birds. He slips his finger into the cage, strangely drawn to the idea of stroking finch-Francis. Instead, finch-Fitzjames lunges at him to deliver a wicked bite with his blunt beak.

Ann claps her hands together in delight, all praise for the fierce little animal. “Oh, well done, you brave thing! What a loyal Second he is, to defend his First so loyally. I shall _have_ to call him Fitzjames, now! No, _Finch_ james!”

Finchjames, Good Christ. James won’t tell Francis about that.

*****

Ann’s Finchjames and Chirpzier – now favourites of the children, their names a continuous source of vexation to James – are frequently on James’s mind. No more do they flutter their way into his thoughts than some two weeks later, when at an Admiralty dinner, James catches sight of one of the birds’ namesakes.

James sees Francis, standing awkwardly by a hearth and involved in a conversation James knows of which he does not wish to be a part. He looks stiff and uncomfortable in his dress uniform, as starched as his collar and rigid as a board.

Poor Francis, never one for politicking or small talk. The best of men, but certainly not the friendliest of them.

James crosses the room to rescue his friend, as has so often been his custom. He wades through a sea of polished brass and rustling silk, with his eyes on his horizon: Francis. As he draws near, he finds another figure sweeping in to the place by Francis’s side for which he was angling.

James Fitzjames, who looks as at ease as Francis looks out of place. He clamours at Francis’s elbow, all merry chatter and bright smiles. Fitzjames’s gaze falls briefly upon James, and it is not a welcoming one.

Francis’s smile, when he greets James, is brittle, the gaiety foisted upon him not reaching his eyes. Later, James sees Fitzjames and Francis pressed close together, murmuring, and wonders what is they speak of.

*****

Francis, who has ever been shy of the limelight, is now elusive as a spectre. But James knows his haunt, and that is London.

Francis has taken a modest home in the city. This surprises James. He had half expected Francis to board a ship bound for somewhere warm and remote, never to be seen again. But Francis is in London, and gives no sign of going anywhere else.

Francis is in London, and James _will_ see him, and will see him without Fitzjames. Fitzjames, who is ever at Francis’s side, attending upon him with all the dutiful obedience of a sovereign’s favourite.

Three days after that dismal Admiralty dinner, James makes up his mind to go see Francis. Francis has extended an invitation – full of the sort of halting, gruff affection which James has always found so endearing – that James may call upon him any time he wishes.

“When you find where he has been hiding himself, give him my love,” says Ann.

“Of course, dearest,” says James. He kisses her, fends off the clutching embraces of more than one child, and sets off in search of Francis Crozier.

Off he goes into the misty morning, a naturalist in search of this beast’s favoured territory. He expects to find Francis in his natural habitat: holed up amongst sparse furnishings and miserable as sin.

What he discovers is that Francis’s doorbell is broken – he waits on the doorstep for a good five minutes, knocking away at the door, for which Francis apologizes profusely – and that his housekeeper is on an errand – for which Francis also apologizes.

This bodes poorly for the rest of the home.

So imagine James’s surprise to find that upon crossing the threshold, Francis is the proprietor of a well-furnished home, which is comfortable, inviting, and utterly unlike him.

“Hmm,” he says, as Francis takes his hat and coat. “A marked improvement upon your usual accommodations, Francis.”

Francis gives him a warm smile that is so wonderfully like the man James had thought lost that for a moment, James cannot speak. “Better than a canvas tent and stinking sack, you mean?”

This is not what James meant, but that hardly matters.

He follows Francis to the drawing-room, but has been seated for no more than a moment when he discovers something more shocking than Francis’s sudden appreciation for a hospitable home: Francis does not live alone.

No moody bachelor, as James expected. The evidence is plain when he hears a man’s measured step approaching down the stairs, and with it an unmistakable voice:

“Francis, darling, I don’t suppose you’ve seen my plum waistcoat anywhere? I do hope Mrs. Collins hasn’t taken it to the laundry, I’d so-”

James Fitzjames enters the drawing-room and immediately falls silent. There is but a moment when some muddled emotion passes across his face, before it smooths into its usual countenance of friendly good temper.

“Sir James,” he says, crossing the room and extending a warm hand to be shaken. “What a pleasant surprise. Crozier didn’t tell me he was expecting a guest.”

He tosses away the name – Crozier – with as much flippant disregard as if he has spoken the name of an acquaintance, and not in the previous breath used Francis’s Christian name with a casual affection that stirs something profound in James’s breast.

“My fault. I imposed myself upon Francis without warning,” James admits.

Francis’s cheeks are ruddy, furiously flushed in a way James does not understand. His mouth is open and his gaze furtive and guilty, almost as that of a man slapped.

“Has he offered you anything? Our housekeeper is out, but I can be relied upon for a cup of tea. Or a brandy, if you prefer.”

James tears his gaze from Francis to meet Fitzjames’s. “I shouldn’t like to impose.”

Francis speaks in one of his dour grunts. “You’re not an imposition, James.”

Fitzjames twitches visibly at this.

James stays an hour, drinking a miserable cup of tea, and does not enjoy himself. He had hoped to have some candid conversation with Francis, as has been their custom for so many years. Francis is closer than a friend to him, and dearer than a brother – has he not earned Francis’s honesty?

But Francis barely speaks, a silent figure whose gaze rarely moves from Fitzjames.

*****

“Fitzjames lives with him,” James explains to Ann, later. Or perhaps it is Francis who lives with Fitzjames. It hardly matters.

Ann shrugs, obviously unbothered. She is tossing seeds into the birdcage. “After what they endured together, I’m not surprised that they should feel at ease in one another’s company.”

True – but never would Francis consent to live again at Eliot Place. Why, then, should James find his dearest friend content in the bosom of Fitzjames’s company?

*****

Weeks pass before James sees Francis again. James cannot help but be wounded that Francis shuns the world, since in so doing, he shuns James, too.

It is purely by accident that James sees him in Hyde Park, meandering around the nearly-finished Crystal Palace. He is about to halloo across the lawn to Francis, but there at his side is the ubiquitous Fitzjames.

Francis is walking elbow-to-elbow with Fitzjames. Both men are smiling; no, they are laughing. James watches Fitzjames lay a hand on Francis’s forearm, and then lean forward to murmur a quiet word in Francis’s ear.

James cannot bear to see the smile on Francis’s face, and turns away.

*****

“Apparently one James is as good as another,” James observes, that evening, over his fourth glass of port.

Ann, who is eyeing him in disapproval, ventures a guess. “Fitzjames?”

“I can’t fathom it. He _loathed_ the man. Had nothing but contempt for him. Now, what do I find, but Francis always in his company-”

“And not in yours?” Ann’s tone is mild, but her meaning scathing.

“Well-”

“Are you a wife, discovering her husband in the arms of another woman?” she asks. It is only from Ann that James would take such criticism without protest. “Can you not be content that Francis has found such kinship? Surely no man deserves it more than he.”

James can think of no reply. That Francis would find such kinship with _him,_ as he used to!

*****

He finds Francis next at a jeweler. James has elected to surprise Ann with some trinket, perhaps a pendant to adorn that pretty, white neck of hers. He finds, amongst the glass cases full of gleaming gold and glittering gems, his elusive Francis.

James is surprised that Francis is without his Fitzjames, and would not be surprised to find that Francis has him hidden in his coat, to produce at a whim, like a cheap stage magician. But Francis is alone, and is in his element, since he appears to be grumpily haranguing a shop clerk.

Absorbed in this task, Francis does not notice James’s approach. He sidles up to Francis and murmurs, conspiringly, “How about that one, old man?”

He points at a random article before Francis – a very fine pocket watch on a gold chain – and Francis startles like a frightened bird. For a moment there is a wild look in his eyes, and then he grins.

“You frightened this old man nearly to death,” he gripes, in good humour.

This is the Francis that James knows so well – a man who is habitually poor-tempered, even in his good moods. “I ought to be careful, then. I shouldn’t like to kill the _inimitable_ Captain Francis Crozier, should I?”

Francis gives a snort that is rather indecorous, followed by an oath that is positively so. “Good Christ. If you ever label me with such a preposterous term again I’ll save us all the trouble and hang myself out of sheer embarrassment.”

“Francis Crozier, who returned from the ravening jaws of the great white nothing, murdered by deserved praise. A tragedy fit for Sophocles, don’t you think?”

James’s jest leaves his lips before he thinks better of it. Francis’s story is, truly, a tragic one, and not something to be joked about. So many men – Francis’s men – died. He watches Francis’s gaze freeze and turn brittle, like the thin ice of a late November chill. Then a tiny smile appears on his face.

“I have been told before,” he remarks, “that my life contains a great deal of tragedy. I cannot disagree with that, but for the fact that tragic heroes have the good sense to die when their stories end.”

Concern, for the ever-melancholic man. “Francis-”

Francis waves James’s concern aside. His smile is nearly enough to soothe James’s worry. He is about to go on, to say something – anything, what it is hardly matters – but at this moment, the shop clerk appears with a small box wrapped in brown paper. He hands this to Francis.

James’s curiosity at this overcomes him. “Not for Miss Cracroft, surely?”

Francis’s suit has not been renewed, apparently, which is much to poor Sophia’s chagrin. James cannot blame her for refusing Francis, of course – Francis had been, while deserving of merit and happiness, nearly penniless, Irish, surly, and over-fond of spirits. He was hardly the sort of match that could have made a woman either happy or secure, and regardless of any feeling Sophia may have had for Francis, it was the intelligent decision to spurn his advances.

He is now free of the spirits and seems to have retired on a comfortable pension, but he is still Irish, still surly, and is now over-fond of Fitzjames. Even if Francis were to make a third attempt upon Miss Cracroft, he would still be a poor match.

Still, James cannot help but feel more than a twinge of dislike toward a woman who has been the source of such heartache to such a dear friend.

 _Is_ Francis still a dear friend? James would like to think so.

The aforementioned man has turned pink. “Er. No. Not Sophia.”

This piques James’s interest. “Another lady, then? I hope you will not take offence at my surprise, but-”

“No,” blurts Francis. “Not that. I – a gift for a friend.”

He needn’t say who. James nods and suddenly there is a great distance between James and Francis. It is as if they stand apart upon the pack, staring at each other with an expanse of merciless ice between them; but if that were truly the case, James could cross the snow to meet Francis, and Francis him, whatever the distance. This seems impossible now.

In their silence, Francis puts the box into his coat. He seems to be going, but lingers a moment. A tiny pause; a little flicker of light, and heat in James’s breast.

“Please, come visit,” says Francis. He presses one finger to James’s chest, tapping him just above the heart. The touch is enough to startle James. “Any time you wish. You are always welcome.”

James nods, and Francis goes out into the wintry air.

*****

“If he told you to visit, you ought to,” Ann tells him, later. “Unless you’re afraid of something. Of Fitzjames, perhaps?”

James is _not_ afraid of Francis’s prancing, mincing, peacocking Fitzjames. Though good _Christ,_ he reminds himself of Francis when he thinks this – strange, that Fitzjames, who was once low in Francis’s estimation and high in James’s, ought now have changed places. To prove it, he waits a week, and then when he can bear no longer Ann’s profound and challenging looks, sets off for Francis’s home.

It is a cool afternoon, clouded and threatening either rain or snow, if not their hideous bastard: sleet. James stands on the threshold with his hand over the bell, more nervous than a boy come a-calling to his sweetheart, and afraid of finding her father at home.

Shaking himself, he rings.

Nothing happens.

Oh, yes, the doorbell is broken. James lifts his hand to knock. When there is no reply, he tries the door and finds it unlocked. So he lets himself in. A hideous breach of decorum, but Francis is hardly one to stand on principle.

The house is dark – for a moment, James wonders if anyone is at home. But peering down the hall, he sees a pool of light gathered on the floor at the threshold of the drawing-room. Even if this is only the housekeeper, James will leave his card for Francis as proof that Francis cannot, _must_ not continue to ignore him.

Something prevents him from calling out. Perhaps it is the near-silence in the house, which seems loath to be broken, or maybe the warm tranquility that hangs in the air. For the house is very warm – nearly intolerably so. Whatever it is, it keeps James quiet as he approaches the drawing-room with the barest whisper of a tread.

The door to the drawing room is ajar. James lifts his hand to push it open, but that same force that encouraged his silence prevents him from opening it. Perhaps this is a desire to protect Francis’s privacy – but what can Francis have to hide from James?

Peering through the gap between the jamb and the door, James sees precisely what Francis has to hide.

The drawing-room is dark, the drapes drawn. The only source of light is a fire crackling away in the hearth. As James suspected, the room is occupied – not by the housekeeper, but by Francis and his ever-present Fitzjames.

It is just as well, then, that he neither called out nor flung open the door, because there can be no denial as to what is being done here.

Francis sits on the sofa against the wall, the soft blue fabric of which James admired on his latest visit. Straddling Francis’s lap, his head thrown back to bare his long, white neck, and being held in both of Francis’s strong arms is Fitzjames.

The fact that both men are naked, pressed skin-to-skin, is damning enough; the way Fitzjames moves, the roll of his hips, this is doubly damning.

James has never partaken of such an act, nor ever seen it done. He is a sailor, of course, and thus sodomy is hardly a foreign thing. He has seen men lashed for it, even seen them hanged. Always it has seemed a thing of furtive filth, done in alleys and over crates and in stinking molly-houses.

This is no act of casual obscenity. Francis is not using Fitzjames, nor Fitzjames him. This is closer to worship by far than it is to debasement.

Fitzjames sighs, now, and in response Francis draws his hand up the man’s back until he reaches Fitzjames’s shining, mahogany hair. Then he bends Fitzjames down to kiss him.

It should disgust James, to see Francis devour Fitzjames’s mouth with such a blistering kiss, but James cannot imagine disgust at this. To do so would be hypocrisy, surely, since Francis kisses Fitzjames with all the sweet passion that James caresses Ann.

“Good?” asks Francis. His brogue is particularly pronounced.

Fitzjames gives a very toothy smile. “Mhm.”

James will admit that Fitzjames is magnificent, with all that lean sinew on display and his gleaming hair falling across his neck. But it is not Fitzjames that James watches, it is Francis. Francis, whose head has fallen against the back of the sofa, and who is watching Fitzjames with parted lips and an expression so raw and open it drives James nearly to tears.

James notices that Francis now has one hand on Fitzjames’s prick, and is stroking him in tandem with the languid rolls of the man’s hips.

He cannot help but think, for a moment, what it would be like to be pleasured by Francis in such a way. Not once in his life has another man handled James’s cock, but now James can very nearly feel Francis’s grip on that part of him; his hand is rough and calloused, but his touch is gentle and the result exquisite.

At such enticement James’s cock begins to stiffen inside his trousers.

“Good Christ,” says Fitzjames. His voice is a deep growl. “That’s – oh, _God,_ Francis.”

James imagines himself in Fitzjames’s place – _Christ, Francis, touch me, please_ – and quivers with terror at how strongly he wishes for it. Surely it must hurt, he thinks, to be filled in such an intimate place. But why then would Fitzjames allow – no, not just allow, but revel in – this?

His prick ignores the possibility of pain, straining for Francis’s touch. Being denied this, it wishes to be palmed and stroked, which James will not allow. He will not pull himself off, loitering at the threshold of Francis’s parlour, watching the man bugger another one senseless.

But how he _wants_ it. His head spins at the picture displayed before him. He has not the time to feel guilt for his desire, only to acknowledge it far enough to control it.

Fitzjames’s low moans are delicious, nearly as bewitching as Francis’s higher groans – oh, James has heard Francis groan in pain, and in exasperation, and with despair, but never once like this! He did not know Francis capable of such rapturous sounds – and as Fitzjames throws back his head, the sight of Francis’s free hand roaming over his lover’s skin is almost impossibly intoxicating.

Francis watches Fitzjames with wide eyes, an almost innocent look of wonder, almost as if he has never seen the man before and thinks him newly lovely.

Of course Fitzjames adores him, when he is regarded with such reverence-

But Fitzjames’s movements are flagging now, and Francis places his hands on the man’s flanks to slow his pace. “James,” he says. When there is no response, his tone changes. “ _James._ Are you in pain?”

Fitzjames is panting, now, and not with delight. His brow is furrowed. “Fine. I’m – it’ll pass.”

Francis ignores the excuse. At once, his hand goes to a pink scar on Fitzjames’s side, near his heart, which gleams in the firelight. “Here?”

Fitzjames nods. His laugh quavers, almost more like a sob. “All the glory that shot gave me in wardrooms and ballrooms and taverns cannot possibly make up for the joy it wants to deny me now.”

James would never have imagined, from the way Fitzjames boasts about how a Chinese sniper nearly killed him _twice,_ that the wound still pains him. Curious: a thing in which Fitzjames takes such public, pompous pride is privately a weakness.

Francis rubs Fitzjames’s sides as one who stroke the neck of a nervous horse. He makes a noise of comfort, low in his throat, that James has never before heard. “Lie down here. I’ll fetch you a hot compress.”

“No,” he protests.

Francis is already shaking his head. “James-”

“No, Francis, please, I want-”

Fitzjames obviously doesn’t need any more words to make his meaning plain. Francis shares a lingering look with him and then nods, the careful dip of the chin he gives when obeying a command. James has seen this gesture, has been on the receiving end of it – and they loyalty it conveys – more times than he can remember.

As if Fitzjames weighs nothing it all, Francis lifts him from the sofa. He carries him to the hearth, and then lays him down upon the soft rug there. A pillow goes under Fitzjames’s head, and another under the small of his back. In his caresses, Francis lavishes an astonishing affection upon Fitzjames: he kisses Fitzjames’s forehead, then works his way downwards, pressing his devotion to both Fitzjames’s cheeks, then his chest, his belly, both of his knees and, finally, back up to the scar on Fitzjames’s side.

“Better?”

“Yes. You’re so good to me, darling.”

Francis snorts in derision. This is the Francis that James knows.

“Now finish what you started. Don’t leave me wanting.”

“Are you _sure,_ James?”

Fitzjames makes a noise of assent. When Francis spreads Fitzjames’s knees and presses himself back inside him, this sound turns to a guttural moan.

“James.” There is some degree of panic in Francis’s tone. “Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“Tell me if you are. I won’t hurt you. I won’t,” says Francis, fiercely.

Fitzjames is lying open and yielding to Francis. “You never could. Well,” he amends, as his tone lightens and a mischievous smile crosses his face. “Not unless deserved, I suppose. I do recall once receiving an earned blow across the jaw, but that-”

“Oh, stop your prattling,” snaps Francis.

Fitzjames raises his brows: a dare. Francis scowls and then Fitzjames cries out as Francis begins to move. It is almost a pained cry, but when Fitzjames’s head rolls to the side, James can see that he is grinning.

They begin again, falling into a rhythm that gradually grows faster and less collected. Fitzjames punctuates each of Francis’s thrusts with a low sigh, or a deep moan – he is remarkably, delightfully _loud,_ James thinks. When Francis takes Fitzjames’s cock in hand once more, the man positively wails, scrabbling at the rug with clawed hands.

Francis falls upon Fitzjames, kissing him hard, and Fitzjames goes on whimpering.

“Christ, look at you,” growls Francis, when he straightens up. “You’re so lovely, James.”

Fitzjames’s back arches. Quite clearly, he drinks down praise the way Francis used to take his whiskey: quickly, desperately, and at once desiring more.

Francis is obviously more than happy to give it. He drops to his elbows to sing his raptures in Fitzjames’s ear. “Never seen anything more beautiful-”

“Oh, Francis-”

“-than you, dearest, God, you magnificent man, you’ve no idea how much I want you-”

Francis’s tone is low and rough with quiet, profound affection. James has heard this tone before – when they were berthed together, their hammocks slung side-by-side, he and Francis murmuring back and forth in the dark. Of what had they spoken? It had not mattered. Francis’s voice was a soft, warm comfort, as solidly reassuring as a hand offered in the darkness.

“Francis!” Fitzjames cries nothing but Francis’s name, and he sounds near hysterics. James wonders what it must be like to feel such desperate ecstasy.

“Perfect, darling, dear, and God above, I wish that you will always be mine-”

Will Fitzjames not reciprocate? Someone ought to tell Francis that _he_ is lovely, that he is cherished, make him understand that he is adored, and James could do it, James _would_ do it, James knows Francis better than Fitzjames ever could-

But Francis hardly seems bereft. His face is slack with delight, his brow smooth – he looks younger by a decade.

Fitzjames seizes Francis’s hair and presses his forehead to Francis’s. “Christ, I love how it feels, I love it when you’re inside, I love you, I love you-”

“Yes, God, yes, James-”

“Tell me you love me, oh _tell me,_ Francis!”

“Always. I love you, always.”

At this, Fitzjames trembles, cries out, and spurts across his own belly. Francis kisses him as Fitzjames is keening his pleasure, as his own motions become more frenzied.

James leaves them then – something in him tells him that he must not see Francis at his climax. There is something in him that would not bear it.

*****

It is a very long walk home.

James cannot shake the image of Francis and his Fitzjames. And more than the sight of it – though with each step he flees further from the house, he is still there in the room with them, wrapped up in their heat and their groans and their scent.

_Francis, Francis, Francis!_

_Oh, James-_

God, how unfortunate it is that he and Fitzjames share a Christian name!

James is not sure whether it shocks him more to find Francis buggering another man, or whether the true source of his disquiet is that he is in _love_ with one. Or perhaps even worse: such knowledge astonishes him, but does not disgust him.

Francis could never disgust James. He could never revile Francis, not for all the world.

James loves him. And he knows his love returned – or at least, that it used to be. Perhaps it could have been more. Could he have ever received Fitzjames’s ecstasies? Surely he could have given them back a thousand times to Francis.

James wonders whether if he had been open to it, Francis would have given him the same affection he has given Fitzjames. Before his marriage – in Van Diemen’s Land, perhaps. If he had gone to Francis’s rooms and laid himself bare, would Francis have gathered him up in his arms and touched him as tenderly as he caressed Fitzjames?

He imagines Francis by lamplight, flushed with exertion, a fetlock of hair falling across his forehead. It is not Fitzjames under him now, but James. Francis spreads him out across the bunk in the captain’s berth on _Erebus._ James is a willing vessel, receiving Francis into him and being adored in turn.

Is this truly such an impossible thing? Has Francis not called James his most beloved friend?

James is at this moment nearly hit by a carriage, and that quiets his imaginings.

*****

“Good heavens,” Ann chides when James returns. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Did you find him?”

“I did.”

Her concern twists her sweet mouth. His darling wife – she loves Francis nearly as well as he does. “Is he unwell? Oh, I can tell that he is. Surely it cannot be worse than how you found him on the ice.”

It is not, of course. There, James had found Francis half-dead and clinging to what at first James thought was a man’s corpse. That body had been the starved and piteous wreck of Fitzjames, and Francis had growled like a wolf over its prey when anyone had tried to take Fitzjames from him.

James shakes his head and smiles. “He is well, my love. He’s – forgive me, it was a long walk.”

She does not press the matter, and for her gentility James loves her all the more. She merely kisses him and goes upstairs.

*****

Two days later, James receives an unexpected guest. It is a little past ten, and he is still reading the paper, when the doorbell rings. Ann goes to receive the visitor, and James contents himself with the obituaries, when there is a shriek of joy.

Ann is trilling her delight, and the source of it enters the room not long after. It is the unmistakable figure of Francis Crozier, hat in hand, being bustled into a chair across from James’s.

“I think I have been neglecting the company of those I find dearest,” he explains, when Ann has left them. He catches James’s gaze as he fiddles with the brim of his hat. “And I have come to be forgiven.”

“I am of the belief,” says James, as he leans forward, “that one must have sinned in order to be in need of forgiveness.”

“Have I not?”

Understanding passes between them as James puts a hand on Francis’s knee. “You have not.”

Francis smiles, and it is touched by tears.

“My dear captain,” says Ann, when she comes back into the room to find two men hurriedly drying their eyes. “James says I oughtn’t, but I hope you will forgive me if I introduce you to a pair of finches? I think you may find them entertaining.”

Francis looks mystified, and James laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, I included both James Fitzjames and JCR and didn’t have the decency to get in any good James/Francis/James threeway action. I seem to be writing everything-but-an-actual-threeway-threeways for Fitzrossier. Forgive me.


End file.
